late night willamette

Walking in south town carrying a god awful amount in my chest. believe me, nothing is easy. September, usually the month of betrayal. for me anyways, i'm not sure what it's like for you... But this year, I don't know. Things are slow. crawling discomfort makes its way in. with eight legs and a sense of entitlement. I yawn at the moon, and feel the aches in my feet. gravity still won't forgive me. I don't know. Things are slow. They almost don't exist. I mean, I could catch the light just right the way it sinks and spreads on the maple, or i could close my eyes and miss it, and think about sadness and what's next... But this year, I'm sober. I see the lucidity of dreams marble past. I go into the liquor store and buy cheap gin. i drink them high balls til i can't, The bowling alley is packed tonight, it's league and those balls are in the rolling. They are born for destruction. I get home and it actually feels like home which surprises me. I drink more. don't worry about me, the weight is lifting. The whole town is expanding, and I want to stay right here and run away. I'm expanding and the whole world feels small. Then I'm walking down the street with my insignificant self, yawning, and the moon is vibrant.

One night stand

The parking lot is empty but my mouth
is full with your mouth
and the inside of your nissan is cluttered
with books and receipts and
there is a wind outside shoving against the glass
and your eyes are like reservoirs glinting in green light
from the dashboard clock

There is a howling outside and the rain blows
sideways across the lamp light
and inside, zippers are unzipping
and the steering wheel is getting in the way.

You wrap around me like melting cellophane
and I will never have to love you.

Ashes

Calla lives behind the crematorium,
the home where they make ash out of us when we are done being human.
Before we make love, she asks me to fabricate an obituary for whoever they are burning.
I refuse, but she won’t let me unzip her pants until I come up with something.
So…“Okay, his name was Ryan…”
I use the name of her ex-boyfriend,
she shutters and laughs.
I can only get a few lines in before her tongue is thrashing
around inside my mouth like a shark...and
My eyes cascade along her ribs, drip down her belly
Her teeth shine bright, glinting like broken bottles.

And it continues like this for months…
always having to laugh about dark things before we can touch.
She becomes a psychological surgeon, suturing together sex and death, and I the nervous patient, standing outside her apartment in the cold, pacing in the circles of my thoughts.
the sex becomes lead boots that i wear and the corners of my mouth get heavier.
And When She flies off to Brooklyn to pursue
money and more men, my heart beat slows down,
and I know that I can stop loving her.

After my father was done being human,
He visited the crematorium,
He spent eight years in a plastic bag, in an urn, sitting on a book shelf in my step father’s house, around books he never would have read.
Finally, my two brothers and I drove down to Tahoe—
my father riding in the trunk the whole way.
Justin, in the parking garage,
busted off the Cross from the urn
He said, “That should have been done a long time ago.”
and threw it against the wall.

The boat is quiet
as the three of us lean over its edge to release our father like a fish we can’t keep.
We watch his ashes sink to the bottom.
My aunt warned us that sometimes the ashes float,
And sometimes you’ll see chunks of bone,
and it’s not as beautiful
As you see in the movies,
But it is.

The three of us jump into the lake,
We tread water as he dives towards the floor.
Parts of him moving into the bellies of trout.
Most of him dissolving into the acres of water.
Andrew says, “son of a bitch was ready.”
And he was, for sure.


Today, Calla is married and I no longer have to love her,
Which still fills me with a great joy.
And my father is swimming along the rocks
trying to trick the fly fishermen,
biting and letting go,
tugging on the hopes of a casted line

I walk by the crematorium and these thoughts rise like air bubbles—popping
when they hit the surface.
And the sun seems reluctant
to go behind the hills,
as If it wants to shine on me
a little longer than it should.

eternity in her hips

a century ago
she walked across the room
in that same black and white dress
those same haunting hips
swaying like an elephant

echoing are the thoughts of art
and understanding
the brief glimpses of inspirational spasm
while you're there lying on your back
in a field of carpet
with the lights out in your apartment
and the stereo hammering hip hop you've never
heard before.

Under you is the same earth
that held her feet.
The same earth that drank up
all the blood of a billion men.
The clay and the rock
that has seen and heard it all
and no longer needs inspiration
to exist.

it sees the bigger picture
this old egg.
we swim around inside of it
trying to impregnate our ideas
with motivation.

but whatever happened
to the gentle sway of a stranger
and the gray of her eyes
as she looks at the floor
then up to yours?

watch your mouth

That fat tongue of yours
rolls and rolls

your teeth, that jaw of yours hammering on...and on...
each sound wave bothering Time's eardrum

we listen to your millions of misfortunes
your feet are too big and you never could be funny.
you can’t trust anymore, and your friends think your boring.

We could spend a few life times complaining. sure why not?
It is infinite, you know
all the cosmos of sucking.

I could keep listening to your songs, but baby, they bore me.
they put me to death.

I may already be closing the coffin. from all your sucking.